


we ain't in a hurry

by ThisJoyAndI



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Implied Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 07:03:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12812226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisJoyAndI/pseuds/ThisJoyAndI
Summary: (rushing into love)'Pyjamas probably aren’t the best attire to make such a confession in. Elle Woods would certainly have a conniption if she knew what Sansa is doing, but Elle also thought the asshole on legs that is Warner Huntington III was the love of her life, so.'





	we ain't in a hurry

**Author's Note:**

> This is semi inspired by a real-life experience I had with a guy who I propositioned and who then ghosted me, got back in contact with me after I was like “...are you seriously ghosting me?”… and then proceeded to ghost me again. 
> 
> If the guy in question somehow ever happens to read this – Hey, sorry for writing a fic about you I guess. But also, w t f.

It is a Saturday night when she propositions Jon.

Sansa could blame her actions on the cold weather, or on the copious amount of wine she has consumed…but really, the text message she carefully types out and sends to her brother’s best friend is entirely her fault. It has been well over two months since Harry decided she was no longer of any use to him and dumped her via Snapchat, an obviously _fantastic_ example of communication via modern technology. She has mourned far longer for their relationship than she really should have, her inexplicable grief perhaps stemming somewhat to the leftover anguish of her past relationships. Whatever she had with Harry was never meant to be serious, and Harry certainly hadn’t seen it that way, delighting in his ability to not only have Sansa Stark on his arm but be able to chat up other girls as well.

Harry ‘the man-ho’ Hardyng was what Arya had dubbed him, and Robb had nearly driven all the way to the Vale in order to give him what was sure to be a lengthy speech adapted from one of their father’s, one which had probably been given to Robb himself, concerning the importance of being a gentleman. But it has been over two months since she last saw Harry – or rather, his genitalia – via Snapchat, and she never thought there could be a future with him anyway. She may have wanted their relationship to be a little more exclusive than it was, purely for her own sake of mind, but she never wanted to stand at the altar and become Mrs. Harry Hardyng. She wouldn’t wish such a fate on any woman.

Really, the only reason she had stuck around for so long, put up with his crude jokes, his incredibly short attention span and rampant misogynism, was, quite simply, because the sex had been absolutely fantastic.

And so it should have been. She hadn’t sought Harry out for any other purpose. She’d done her research, spoken to Margie and her friends, and they had all decided that for the purposes of getting laid Harry Hardyng was the man she needed.

But now it has been over three months since her last sexual encounter. She knows that such a time period is incredibly short, but going from having sex every day (sometimes multiple times a day) to nothing at all has been a shock to her system.  And she’s a twenty-two year old woman – there is nothing wrong with her wanting to have sex, no matter what expectations society might try to force upon her. As long as she’s consenting and safe, Sansa really doesn’t see what the issue is. She can count the number of sexual partners she has had on one hand, and aside from that one fumble with Smalljon Umber, she has always been in a relationship with the people she’s sleeping with.

However, right now she has no interest in starting another relationship. She has no interest in giving yet another boy her heart, not when the gender as a whole has proven itself unworthy of it. However, she does have every right to have sex with someone, even if she doesn’t love them. But the idea of using Tinder repulses her, so the only other option available to her is initiating a sexual relationship with someone she knows in real life – actual face-to-face communication, how terrifying.

Smalljon is single and would most probably never decline her, but things with him could quite easily turn into a serious relationship, and Sansa does not want that, not yet. Margie has quite a few handsome cousins that could be suitable, but Sansa doesn’t want to do anything that might hurt the friendship they share, seeing as Margie’s support was perhaps the only thing that helped her truly recover after Joffrey turned out to not be the Prince Charming everyone thought he was. Robb’s rugby team is full of men that would never decline her advances, but she knows just how bad locker room talk can get and she doesn’t want her brother to have to hear one of his teammates brag about their latest conquest, completely oblivious to who said conquest actually is.

She loves Robb far too much to ever undermine his authority at Winterfell’s captain, and she’d never do anything to disrupt the harmony of the rugby team, not when they might actually beat King’s Landing this season. She wants nothing more than to see the sure to be spectacular tantrum Joffrey throws when his team loses. She’s thinking about filming it and putting it online, just so everyone else can have a giggle at what an obnoxious twat Joffrey is, but the Lannisters would probably sue her if she did that.

It is Margie who suggests she ask Jon, a suggestion to which Sansa gapes at. They’re at Saturday brunch, their weekly ritual, and she thinks it may be the unlimited mimosas that are making her friend think such a suggestion is at all appropriate. If she doesn’t want to ask any of Robb’s teammates, she certainly cannot ask Jon Snow to, as Margie puts it, ‘throw her on a bed and ravish her’, not when he’s been Robb’s best friend for the entirety of their lives. And as handsome as Jon is (she isn't blind - she's always been envious of his curls and full lips), he is Robb's best friend. There are just some lines that are never meant to be crossed, and that is most certainly one of them. Besides, she's known Jon all her life. He's seen her at her worst, red-eyed and sobbing over her latest heartbreak, entirely intoxicated and close to puking all over her mother's pristine carpet. He's not her brother, but he may as well be. She dismisses Margie's suggestion with a roll of her eyes and downs her own mimosa quickly, vowing to forget all about the idea. 

Except, she can't.

A few hours later, when she’s home alone and the alcohol has worn off, all she can think about is how nice Jon's arms looked in the button-down he wore to the last weekly family dinner, how ridiculous it is that he thinks he looks horrible in his prescription glasses. She's always known he was handsome, ridiculously so...but now, thanks to Margie, she cannot stop thinking about him. She follows him on every form of social media they both have, but now she actively seeks out his Instagram account of a night-time, scrolling through his photos and praying she doesn't accidentally like one of his old posts. It’s like she’s a fourteen year old girl experiencing her first crush, honestly. Jon’s first ever post is a photo of all of them from ages ago - Robb, himself, her, Arya, Bran, Rickon. She thinks her father must have taken it, for the grins on their faces could have only been caused by one of Ned Stark's infamously cheesy phrases. They all look so terribly young, and she knows that it was taken well before Joffrey, before university and careers, well before they had anything at all to worry about.  

It is entirely cliché, but she misses the girl she was in that photo - quick to love, optimistic, whole. And not utterly preoccupied with Jon Snow and his stupidly beautiful face. 

She's somewhat tipsy, in need of a sexual encounter and currently looking at Jon's Instagram account for the thousandth time. There's nothing for it. She finishes off her third (fourth?) glass of wine, and picks up her phone, opening up a new message and carefully tapping Jon’s contact as the person she wants to send said message to. His icon is a lovely closeup taken at Christmas, gravy smeared all over his face.

 **SANSA:** I'm so bored I'm about to Google 'how to cure boredom.' 

 **JON:** Well, don't bother because I've done it for you, and Google says 'watch that documentary I was telling you about last week.'

Sansa has to laugh at that, because Jon has truly terrible taste in documentaries. Well, perhaps not terrible, but he’s far too invested in historical documentaries that never fail to put her straight to sleep. She can see the appeal and she appreciates the amount of the research they would have had to do, but Mr. Baelish all but ruined history for her with his creepy fascination with powerful women. It’s better to sleep than to remember his vivid, somewhat explicit descriptions of Cleopatra and Helen of Troy. But she doesn’t want to sleep… at least, not yet.

 **SANSA:**  That's funny, because Google just told me to 'have sex.'

A minute goes by with no response. Sansa pours herself another glass of wine and inhales sharply. 

Fifteen minutes go by, and still, there is no response. Her glass is now empty and Sansa curses under her breath, leaving her phone on the counter and seeking the sanctuary that is her bed.  

_Idiot. She is, without a doubt, a certifiable idiot._

_\---_

When she wakes in the morning Sansa can only be thankful that it's a Sunday and she has nothing to do. Judging by the amount of sunlight streaming into her bedroom, she has slept far longer than she should have... most likely because she discarded her phone on the kitchen counter and as such was left bereft of her alarm. As she slowly wakens, she remembers exactly what transpired last night – the message she sent, Jon’s lack of any form of a reply – and then she wants nothing more than to fall back asleep and never face the world ever again.

Gods, how can she ever face Jon again? The embarrassment isn’t in the proposition, it is in Jon’s failure to reply, in his subtle rejection. Jon is far too nice to ever outright tell someone no, but she isn’t an idiot. He didn’t reply, and she was stupid to have ever sent such a message, thinking that what worked for Harry, what worked for Joffrey, what worked for 95% of the men she knew, would also work on Jon. And so now Sansa has cause to be embarrassed not only by Jon’s rejection but because she has surely insulted him, thinking him to be of the same ilk as Harry and Joffrey. It’s entirely her fault, and she has no idea how she is going to fix everything.

First and foremost though, she is in dire need of a glass of water. Maybe when her head stops throbbing she’ll be able to make a plan – or, at least, string more than two words together.

Two glasses of water later, she decides to send Jon a text, trying not to cringe as she clicks on the message thread that already exists between them.

 **SANSA:** Jon, I’m so dreadfully sorry about last night. There’s really no excuse, but I’d had a few glasses of wine and thought it would be a smart idea to message you. I can only hope that you can forgive me.

Crossing her fingers (and her toes), Sansa presses send and almost immediately turns her phone off, snagging a box of crackers from the pantry before retreating back to the welcoming location of her bed.

Once she’s eaten and binge-watched both Legally Blonde movies (because Elle Woods is, was, and always will be the inspirational figure every modern woman should look up to), she’ll check her phone. Until then, she pulls the covers up to her chin, queues up Netflix and shoves four crackers simultaneously into her mouth. After she’s watched Elle completely decimate Warner and reminded herself that women do not need to be so apologetic all the time… then she’ll be brave enough to deal with however Jon decides to reply.

\---

Four blocks over, Jon hasn't slept all night. His hair is messier than usual, his eyes bloodshot. He looks exactly like he did the morning after his eighteenth birthday, but right now, he is undoubtedly, _unfortunately_ , sober.

Why is he such a mess? Oh, maybe because exactly eleven hours ago, his best friend’s little sister, the woman who has featured in his fantasies more frequently than he would ever care to admit, sexually propositioned him via text message. And rather than reply to her message…well, he doesn’t want to admit out-loud exactly what he did. There’s doing it and then there’s admitting it.

And now, ten hours and forty-three minutes after undertaking such an action, he is desperately trying to think of a reply to her latest message – an apology which causes his throat to tighten with guilt, for his lack of a reply is the reason why Sansa has felt the need to send such a text, to feel ashamed of her actions.

He might be an only child, but if he had sisters, he would want them to be as open and embracing of their sexuality as Sansa has proven herself to be. And now, because he didn’t reply, he’s caused Sansa to feel as if she needs to apologise for something which is as natural and commonplace as breathing. He may not have deliberately shamed her, but he’s come fairly close to committing such a heinous action.

And all because she made him feel uncomfortable. All because he is somehow not as at ease with his sexuality than any other twenty-four year old man he knows.

 **JON:** There’s no need to apologise

Shaking his head, he deletes the text and starts again.

 **JON** : You don’t need to apologise. I’m sorry for not replying...

He pauses, thinking. Maybe he should have done this after a coffee. But no, it’s been long enough. He’s left Sansa on read for eleven hours, when he prides himself on his punctuality when replying to messages. And it’s not just a simple ‘hello’ that he’s left on read – it’s Sansa’s openness, her honesty, her courage. Who is to say what the effects of his blatant fear could be, if he leaves everything unexplained.

 **JON** : You don’t need to apologise. I’m sorry for not replying. I should be the one apologising, truly. All I can say is that I freaked out when you messaged me, but that’s still no excuse.

 **JON:** If I can be honest with you (and I know I can), the reason I freaked out is because it’s been a while since I last had sex. I don’t know if you remember Ygritte from uni, but she is the last person I had sex with. I have only ever had sex with people I’ve been in a relationship with, and honestly, I’m a little scared. I know that sounds utterly ridiculous, being scared of something which is wonderful but that’s how I feel.

Hitting send, Jon inhales sharply and locks his phone. He falls back against his pillow and shuts his eyes, exhausted.

\---

The box of crackers is empty, the credits to Legally Blonde 2 scrolling across the screen. There’s two empty teacups on her side table, both half-finished – she only likes to drink tea when it’s quite hot, and she’s far too concerned about radiation to microwave her tea when it gets too cold for her liking. Her hair has been scraped up into a bun, and there’s the remnants of a clay mask still lingering on her skin.

Her phone has been off for over two hours. Margie, concerned, contacted her via Facebook, but she managed to excuse her lack of replies quite well, if she says so herself. She got rather good at deceiving her loved ones when she was dating Joffrey, and it’s somewhat saddening that she has to resort to such dishonesty now, years after what Arya dubbed the ‘Lannister debacle’.

But it’s time to turn it on, if only because she is a millennial and now that the movie is over, she is starting to feel the boredom creeping in. Besides, there’s sure to be Instagram updates she needs to like, Facebook statuses to react to, Snapchats to open. It isn’t as if she is only turning her phone back on to keep if Jon has replied.

Still, her throat does tighten when she sees not only one, but two texts from ‘Jon’ *snowflake emoji* pop up on her home screen. She tries to skim read them, but they’re far too long, most likely owing to Jon’s English Literature degree and his resulting verbosity. So, brow furrowed, Sansa opens them, Jon’s apology entirely unnecessary seeing as she is the one who is in the wrong.

She remembers Ygritte, Jon’s Scottish girlfriend who had a penchant for Shakespearian tragedies. Ygritte’s hair was slightly darker than her own, her accent more charming than Sansa’s. Her and Jon were together for the majority of his time at university, and Robb told them all that they only broke up due to Jon’s reluctance to pursue a career in Glasgow. If Jon hasn’t had sex since they broke up, then her three-months drought spell is nothing in comparison to his. If she believes herself to be in need of a sexual encounter, then Jon is definitely in need of one. But, judging from his texts, he is afraid of the very idea, for reasons she doesn’t understand but won’t deny.

Her memories of Jon though, are of a boy who always had long-term girlfriends. Before Ygritte, there was Val, and before Val, there was one of Jon and Robb’s childhood friends, Alys. Jon, unlike Robb, unlike Theon, unlike Smalljon, has never been one to take home girls he’s met that night, sleep with them, and then never contact them ever again.

She unlocks her phone, but before she can begin to craft a response, her doorbell rings. It’s probably Margie, Chinese food in tow. Sansa’s stomach rumbles at the thought, despite the crackers. She certainly wouldn’t turn down a satay chicken stir-fry and spring rolls, she thinks as she peers through the peephole.

But it isn’t Margie on the other side of the door. There’s no Chinese food - sadly. There’s only Jon, hair messier than usual and shirt wrinkled. Confused, she opens the door.

“Hi.” She doesn’t mean it, but there’s a questioning lilt to her voice.

“Hey. You didn’t reply,” Jon says in explanation. “I fell asleep but when I woke up, you still hadn’t replied.” He looks sheepish, the expression further deepened by the presence of his glasses.

She holds up her phone in response, shaking it a little. “I was just about to,” she tells him. “I just couldn’t think of how to reply.”

Jon nods, hands in his pockets. She realises that they are still standing in her doorway, as awkward as could possibly be, and so she steps aside to let him into the apartment, thanking each and every deity that Jeyne went out last night and is unlikely to return anytime soon, judging from the fact that the last update to her Snapchat story was of the sunrise. The lounge room is far tidier than her bedroom is at the moment, courtesy of Jeyne’s stellar cleaning ability, so she takes a seat on the longue, hands clasped in her lap. Jon stands awkwardly for a moment, before sitting down himself.

“So,” she begins. “So,” Jon says at the same time, before abruptly stopping. He gestures for her to continue, but she shakes her head.

“You first. Age before beauty,” she teases, just like she has hundreds of times in the past. However, this time Jon doesn’t reply with a wry comment of his own – generally something along the lines of “I’m only two years older than you Sansa, and we both know that I’m just as beautiful.” This time, Jon merely remains silent, the look on his face aptly describable as pensive. A heartbeat goes by in silence, then two, then a third. She’s beginning to feel rather uncomfortable now, which is a feeling she is unfamiliar with experiencing when she’s around Jon. He happily handed her makeup wipes when she found out that Joffrey had been cheating on her, all whilst adamantly accusing her of doing the very same thing. To say the least, her reaction had been nothing short of dramatic, and a few Lannister heirlooms had unfortunately been destroyed due to her lacklustre aim. She still prides herself on the fact that she didn’t burst into tears until she had shut the front door and discarded herself of all the elaborate Lannister jewellery she realised then and there had been nothing more than a means of bribing her, of ensuring her loyalty to Joffrey – in case his true nature ever became apparent.

Jon inhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. He closes his eyes briefly, before opening them and turning slightly to look directly at her.

Sansa speaks before he can, even though she knows what he would have said would have been far more poetic than her simple “I’m sorry.” But she is sorry, for she considers Jon to be part of her close circle, a circle which has gotten rather small in the last few years. She always seeks out his advice, he always makes her laugh, and she loves him.

_She loves him._

Not like a brother, not like a friend…but she loves Jon the same way she loved Joffrey – whole-heartedly, without reservation. The only difference is that Jon is definitely _not_ Joffrey. He’s the polar opposite, and if he were anyone else Sansa would delight in her feelings for him. As it is, she cannot seemingly speak, her entire body frozen in place. Why couldn’t she have realised she was in love with him before she propositioned him? A confession of love is something else entirely than a sexual proposition to someone who has admittedly to being afraid of the act.

She has to tell him. She may have only just come to the realisation herself, but Jon deserves to know.

“I love you,” she tells him, entirely aware that pyjamas probably aren’t the best attire to make such a confession in. Elle Woods would certainly have a conniption if she knew what Sansa is doing, but Elle also thought the asshole on legs that is Warner Huntington III was the love of her life, so. And judging from the way Jon’s eyes widen, from the way his mouth parts in shock, Jon doesn’t care whatsoever about what she might be wearing.

“You love me?” he repeats, his voice hoarse. He sounds exactly like the time he, Robb and Theon managed to snag a packet of terrible, cheap cigarettes, and decided to smoke the entire packet in one afternoon. They’d all reeked of cigarette smoke for almost a week afterwards, and her mother had made them wash their mouths out with soap almost immediately when she realised what they had done.

She nods, cheeks certain to be redder than her hair. “I do. It probably would’ve been smarter to tell you that rather than proposition you, but I only just realised it myself.” He doesn’t reply, so she continues speaking, shrugging in what she hopes eludes a relaxed air. “It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way.”

Jon shakes his head roughly, curls flying. “No, no, no, that’s not it,” he exclaims, almost stuttering in his haste to reassure her. “Of course I feel the same way, of course I love you. How could I not?” he asks, incredulous. “You’re Sansa,” he stresses, grasping her hand tightly. “You’re funny, you’re intelligent, you’re so bloody kind, and you’re incredibly gorgeous. Gods, I’ve probably been in love with you since the first time I met you, but seeing as I was six and you were four at the time, that’s a bit creepy to confess.”

Now she’s the one sitting silent in shock, mouth agape. “You love me?” is all she can manage to query. Jon nods, his thumb running slowly up and down her pointer finger. After a moment, she laughs, the sound almost deafening. She laughs and she shakes her head in amusement, her previously tight bun loosening with the motion. Jon quirks a brow at her, brow furrowed in confusion.

She inhales deeply, and then explains herself. “We’re idiots, aren’t we? Complete and utter idiots. Here we both are, in love with each other but for some reason unable to admit it.” She continues, “Instead of telling you how I felt, I thought it would be better to proposition you. And instead of replying to that message… you ghosted me.”

Jon’s confusion is replaced by guilt, and he looks away. His grip on her hand loosens, but she tightens her own grasp in response, reluctant to let his hand go now that she is finally holding it as something other than a friend, something other than Robb’s little sister. _Gods, how are they going to tell Robb? _The thought flickers through her mind, but there are far more important things to concern herself with right now – namely, the man in front of her, and how sorrowful he looks.

“I’m only teasing,” she assures him, tracing soothing circles over the back of his hand. “You had every right not to reply. I’m sorry that I ever put you in that position.”

Jon looks at her, exhaling. He is silent, once more, for one heartbeat, and then two – and then, his lips are on hers, his hand cupping her cheek tenderly. He tastes like the minty toothpaste she’s often borrowed, and he doesn’t deepen the kiss, merely pulls away after a few moments and rests his forehead on hers. She grins, so widely it almost hurts.

“I said I was a virgin, not a monk,” she quotes. Jon’s brow furrows in confusion, before he audibly groans.

“Sansa, I’ve told you that Outlander isn't really an accurate depiction of the Jacobite rebellion - ”

Any further complains are swiftly cut off by Sansa’s lips, her hands winding through Jon’s hair.

\---

Neither of them hear the key turning in the door, or the muffled cursing. If they had, they probably would have made an attempt to appear as if they hadn’t just been making out for the last twenty minutes… maybe.

Jeyne looks at them, her makeup smudged and dress dangling off her shoulder. Her heels are in her hands, her hair quite possibly now an actual birds nest, and yet she has the audacity to pronounce, looking directly at Sansa, “Your bedroom is right there, you know.”

Jon smothers his laugh in Sansa’s neck, grinning. Nonplussed by Jeyne’s comment, Sansa weaves her hand through his hair once more and pulls him down to her. 


End file.
